


Father Christmas

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: Endpoint [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable Sherlock Holmes, Age Play, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Food Issues, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 00:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13019277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: John handed him one of the penguin-wrapped packages. Unable to resist, Sherlock accepted it, giving it a sharp shake. “Puzzle,” he announced, looking bored.“I think that even Anderson could deduce that one,” Greg chuckled.John tries to bring a bit of Christmas cheer into their lives.





	Father Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after ENDPOINT: Miss Directed, during a sequel I haven’t finished yet.

It had been a long two days. Sherlock’s patience with Christmas Eve and Christmas Day festivities had never been long, and this, the first time they had celebrated the holiday since his return, had been especially trying. Understandably, there were many people who wanted to spend some time with him, or at least phone. He had thrown his mobile across the sitting room in frustration before noon on Christmas Eve. It had landed (and John was positive that this was deliberate) in the branches of the tree he had erected.  
  
Yes, of course John had put up the tree himself—and decorated it. And then strung fairy lights in the windows and across the mirror over the fireplace. He had done a lot of teetering on a kitchen chair until it dawned on him to borrow Mrs Hudson’s step stool.  
  
Sherlock had been holed up in the bedroom since the mobile toss, so hadn’t observed John’s activities. The doctor was fine with that, truth be told; sulky, stroppy Sherlock was getting on his nerves. He knew that all the attention Sherlock was receiving was precisely the sort of attention he abhorred. It had nothing to do with his brilliance, so he saw no purpose in it.  
  
Mrs Hudson had had enough by that evening. She had been constantly interrupted answering the bell, as Sherlock had made it abundantly clear that morning that he was not even slightly inclined to do so himself—and had dismantled their bell, which John didn’t realise until that night.  
  
Finally, with some wheedling, begging, bargaining, shouting, and finally commanding, John had gotten the thin man down into their landlady’s flat for a festive Christmas dinner.  
  
The older woman had, despite the multiple interruptions, put together a fabulous dinner. So much more aware of Sherlock’s oversensitivity to certain foods now, she had conferred closely with John to ensure that nothing would be alarming or distressing to him.  
  
The prawn cocktail starter was a hit; it was perfectly acceptable to eat them with one’s fingers and no one expected him to try the tomato-ketchup-based dipping sauce.  
  
She knew he despised turkey and, after an unfortunate incident involving sub-standard refrigeration, goose as well, so she had done roast beef. Per Sherlock’s preference (and hers, to be honest), she had done it extremely rare, and John had skilfully removed almost paper-thin slices from it, placing small portions on each of their plates.  
  
Mashed potatoes were simple; she had perfected the texture he preferred and of course only put a small portion on his plate to start.  
  
She had done brussels sprouts, which the detective usually despised, but instead of simply boiling them, she had roasted them with garlic and balsamic vinegar, and he had, surprisingly, quite liked them. (John really enjoyed them as well and made a mental note to get the recipe from her.)  
  
Finally, their remarkable landlady had presented them with the most perfect crisp-on-the-outside/chewy on the inside, puffy, _individual_ Yorkshire puddings. Sherlock accepted gravy, which was a bit of a surprise, but only because it was piping hot and in a small cruet of its own, so he could rip off strips of the light, golden treat and dip them into it one at a time before popping them into his mouth. He even unbent enough to give a short lecture on the science behind the dish, and Mrs Hudson took him up on his challenge to perform a few experiments with her recipe and technique.  
  
They took a short break to exchange gifts; Sherlock had correctly predicted that he and John each would receive a hand-made item. John thought his new crocheted hat of dark-green wool was fine, but what delighted him was that she had made Sherlock elbow-length, extra-padded oven mitts—in purple.   
  
John had gotten her lovely lambskin slippers with a textured sole that she could even wear to nip out to her bins. Sherlock had gotten her a book about growing herbs in pots (and vegetables and fruit, but it was clear what he had intended). John gave him a smack on the back of his head, and then she and John laughed and Sherlock let his shy smile grace his face for a few seconds.  
  
Pudding—a huge hit—was individual trifles. Sherlock had actually cracked another smile when presented with the small glass dish prettily layered with sherry-soaked sponge, raspberries, and custard. Sometimes Sherlock didn’t like whipped cream, so she had made some separately and dolloped it on her own and John’s, not fussing when Sherlock shook his head.  
  
Sherlock had brought a nice bottle of wine and overall, it was a pleasant evening.  
  
John had helped with the washing up and then they saw her out—she was headed to her sister’s to spend the night and Christmas Day.  
  
By then the visitors had ceased, and they retreated upstairs gratefully. Sherlock had noticed—for the first time, apparently—the decorations.  
  
“You decorated.”  
  
“Brilliant observation—you haven’t lost a thing,” John teased, eliciting a bemused scowl.  
  
Sherlock’s mobile rang. When it was clear that he was going to ignore it, John sighed and bent to retrieve it from the branches of their tree. “It’s your mum,” he said, “and you are going to speak to her and your father.” He thrust the object under his mate’s nose.  
  
Heaving a sigh of operatic proportions, he accepted it and the call. John giggled at the dramatics and went in search of their coats; they were going out.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the thin man snarled, whipping his head around at the sound of the doorbell (that John had insisted he reconnect that morning). He headed down the stairs, grumbling something that John didn’t catch. The interruptions and visitors of the day before had continued through the morning and into the afternoon and he was absolutely on the verge of a huge strop.  
  
“Hey, John,” Greg called out as he strode up the steps. He had a bag with wrapped gifts in one hand. “Merry Christmas!”  
  
“Merry Christmas!” He walked over to him and accepted the bag so the silver-haired man could take off his coat.  
  
Sherlock shuffled up the stairs, looking so put out Greg burst out laughing. “Here’s our very own personal Scrooge,” he declared.  
  
“He’s had a horrid morning of nice people wishing him well and opening gifts,” John reported.  
  
The thin man huffed and dropped onto the sofa, his dressing gown floating around him. “All this enforced good will towards man is going to turn me into a homicidal maniac,” he growled, pushing an errant curl from his forehead.  
  
“Don’t listen to him. Last night we went out and Mr Scrooge here personally delivered coats, hats, scarves, and gloves to ten members of his homeless network.”  
  
“Shut up, John,” he grumbled.  
  
“Scotch?” John asked, motioning the DI to join him in the kitchen.  
  
“Uh…. sure,” he agreed. He drew close to the doctor, who had retreated to the far end of the kitchen. “What’s up?” he whispered.  
  
“It’s been rougher than I thought,” the shorter man admitted in a low voice. “Too many people phoning and stopping by. You know how he is with that.”  
  
“Sorry… should I go?”  
  
“No! I have a plan to help him relax, and I’d like you here.”  
  
In low tones, he explained.  
  
*  
  
“Hey, Sherlock—how about you give Greg his gift from us?”  
  
The eye rolling was BAFTA-worthy, but the thin man retrieved the wrapped box and shoved it into the DI’s hands. “Merry Christmas,” he mumbled as he slumped next to him on the sofa.  
  
“Thank you.” Greg sat back, tore the paper off, and opened the thin cardboard box. “Hey, nice! Thanks!” he said sincerely at the sight of the elegant grey shirt and matching tie.  
  
“Sherlock picked them,” John offered. Greg’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and the doctor gave him a meaningful look. “Now,” he mouthed.  
  
“Yeah? Thanks, ‘Lock.”  
  
As expected, the younger man scowled at the nickname. John, who was crouching under the tree pulling out a few more wrapped gifts, glanced over his shoulder. “Hey,” he offered. “Looks like there’s a few more presents for you.”   
  
The scowl turned into a frown of bafflement. “What do you mean? I’ve had presents from everyone I know and a great number of people I don’t know.” He gestured toward Greg’s gift to him—a book about forensic psychology.  
  
“These are special.”  
  
Sherlock looked over suspiciously. They certainly looked special—or at least different. Unlike their gifts to each other, which had been wrapped in a dignified holly-and-ivy patterned paper (and yes Sherlock had wrapped his gifts for John and Mrs Hudson himself), the wrapping on the small stack of presents featured a mixture: two were wrapped in paper featuring penguins in festive winter hats and scarves, one was in a gift bag, two were in solid green, and the remaining two were in very shiny paper: one silver, one gold.  
  
“Who are they from?” he demanded of the doctor, who had risen and was carefully conveying the stack of presents—the gift bag dangling from his finger—to his chair.  
  
“Come sit down here and look,” he instructed, depositing the stack on the floor and seating himself. He tossed the Union Jack pillow onto the worn carpet before the fireplace. The younger man peered at him uncertainly, but he sighed, rose, crossed the room, and flopped down to the floor in front of john, now looking bored.  
  
“There’s my sweet boy,” the doctor murmured approvingly.  
  
Sherlock’s expression shifted from bored back to suspicious. “What’s going on, John?” he asked softly.  
  
“Father Christmas brought some special presents for my special boy.”  
  
“John… no. Not this. I told you I’m not ready for this.” He made a move to rise.  
  
John leaned forward and gently laid a hand on each shoulder. “Love, why did we start ‘this’? Why did we start playing?”  
  
A shrug, and he dropped his eyes to John’s chest level.  
  
“We started playing because you get so wound up you make yourself ill. You don’t take care of yourself and don’t let me or Greg take care of you.”  
  
Sherlock was apparently finding the rather hideous Christmas jumper fascinating, his eyes fixed on it and his mouth tightly shut.  
  
“I know you’ve found the whole holiday thing especially overwhelming this year. You’ve done a good job tolerating it so far, but I thought it would be nice—for you _and_ for me—to have some Daddy and ‘Lock time together.”  
  
“Then why is he here?” was the sulky reply, with a toss of dark curls towards Greg, still on the sofa.  
  
“Because he’s been just as worried about you as I have.”  
  
“What—no ‘Big Brother’?” he sniped.  
  
“He thought it would be best to leave us to ourselves today.”  
  
He fell silent and watched as the thin man still seated at his knee considered this and then slowly shook his head. “I just can’t, John,” he admitted, his voice rough. “I can’t remember how.”  
  
“Why not open your presents, anyway?” Greg suggested softly. “It can’t hurt.”  
  
“There’s one from Uncle Greg,” John pointed out encouragingly.  
  
Greg’s eyebrows shot up for an instant and Sherlock snorted. “I suppose you want me to open that one so you can find out what you got me,” he commented drily.  
  
“Behave yourself,” the doctor instructed. “Here. This is from me.”  
  
He handed him one of the penguin-wrapped packages. Unable to resist, Sherlock accepted it, giving it a sharp shake. “Puzzle,” he announced, looking bored.  
  
“I think that even Anderson could deduce that one,” Greg chuckled.  
  
The long, white fingers made quick work of the paper, and then the bored expression changed. “Oh!” he exclaimed, looking interested despite himself. “That’s rather… neat.”  
  
“It’s an A to Zed map of London,” John explained as Greg craned his head, attempting to see. “A thousand pieces.”  
  
“That should keep you busy,” he nodded in approval.  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
“Now these.” John handed him the two wrapped in green.  
  
“From?”  
  
“Father Christmas.”  
  
“Don’t be silly, John.”  
  
“I’m not. I wrote to Father Christmas and they appeared here, completely by magic.”  
  
“Amazon?”  
  
“I didn’t get them in a shop,” he affirmed stubbornly.  
  
Sherlock gave him a small smile and tore them open. “What… oh. These are rather intriguing,” he admitted. “Look.” He held up two colourful boxes so Greg could see.  
  
“Quadrillion?” the DI read off the box.  
  
“It’s…” The queer eyes, which were now sparkling in the firelight, flicked rapidly across the front and back of the box. “You… put together these squares in different ways and then you have to fit irregular pieces into them.”  
  
“Let’s see,” Greg requested, moving from the sofa to Sherlock’s chair, which had been slightly displaced by the tree.  
  
The younger man handed the box to him and began to examine the second. “Art Ball?” he questioned, looking at John.  
  
“Yeah. The balls are connected, and you can manipulate them any way you want. There’s a video on YouTube. It’ll Keep your hands busy—keep you out of trouble.”  
  
“I don’t get into trouble!” was the indignant response. He made quick work of the box, extracting a ring of twelve balls about an inch and a half in diameter each. They were arranged in pairs of colours—two red, two orange, and so on—to create a circular rainbow. He gave it a tentative tweak—and was delighted when the shape he made stayed.  
  
John let him play with the object for a few minutes, during which he discovered that he could make both geometric, symmetric shapes and more abstract ones. He also obviously liked the feel of the smooth wood, as he kept running his fingers over the balls, naming the colours under his breath.  
  
“You like that, my sweet boy?” John finally interrupted.  
  
“Look at this one!” He held up his creation.  
  
“That’s wonderful, love.”  
  
“Hey, ‘Lock, take a look at this,” Greg interjected. The slender man spun on his bum to face him. “It’s got these different levels of difficulty. See?” He showed him the instructions, and was startled when the young man rose onto his knees and, placing his hands on Greg’s thighs, peered closely.  
  
“We can take turns,” he exclaimed after examining them. “Doing the same… puzzle, and count… time us.”  
  
John and Greg exchanged significant looks over the dark curls and nodded in affirmation of each other’s silent observation. Finally, John picked up another of the gifts. “Hey, ‘Lock, this one’s from Uncle Greg.” Sherlock spun around to face him, and he handed him the gift bag. Long fingers swiftly extracted a blue plastic case with a clear plastic front.  
  
He frowned, and both Greg and John tensed a bit, awaiting his reaction. Then, to their great relief, the frown turned from one of annoyance to one of puzzlement. “Police Case,” he read from the label. And then his puzzlement turned to amazement. “It’s… got handcuffs! Look, Daddy—it’s got handcuffs and a whistle and a torch!”  
  
“That’s terrific, love! Now you can be a policeman like Uncle Greg.” John found that his throat was suddenly tight; his voice rough.  
  
“You’ve even got a badge,” the uncle chimed in, leaning forward to see.  
  
“Thank you, Uncle Greg!”  
  
“Now, this one’s from me.” John handed him the second package in penguin wrap.  
  
Sherlock made quick work of it and nearly squealed in delight. “A doctor kit!” he crowed. “I can be just like Doctor Daddy! Can I… I can take care of my bee and my bear. Thank you, Daddy!”  
  
John’s eyes grew a bit watery. “You’re welcome, sweet boy. Now, last two and then how about I make some hot chocolate?”  
  
Greedy hands reached out for the final two gifts, one in silver and the other in gold paper. “Who are these from, Daddy?”  
  
“Both of those are from Big Brother.”  
  
Sherlock froze in the act of stripping the silver paper from the smaller present. “Big Brother?” he echoed. “Does he know… I mean… did he…?”  
  
John nodded. “Yes, he selected those himself.”  
  
More slowly, he removed the paper, revealing a wooden box, which he carefully opened. “A telescope! A real telescope!” He immediately pulled it open and put it to his eye, swinging it around the flat. “Wow! This is awesome! I can watch for whales and sharks and ships and…” He paused and lowered the brass and leather object. “What’s the last one?” he wondered, dropping the telescope into his lap and reaching for it.  
  
The gold paper glistened as he stripped it off, and then he was perfectly still, just looking.  
  
“What did you get, love?” Greg prodded.  
  
Wordlessly, he held up a long box with a clear plastic front.  
  
“That’s terrific, ‘Lock!” the silver-haired man exclaimed.  
  
It was a pirate pistol.  
  
“Take it out! Take it out of the box, Daddy!” he demanded, waving it frantically at John, who beamed at him and took it.  
  
“Oh, goodie. It needs batteries,” he remarked, noting a small package of them taped to the back of the box. “Lights _and_ sounds. I am going to kill Mycroft.”  
  
“Hurry up!”  
  
John obediently resumed his task, and as quickly as he could, he extracted the plastic pistol and a black eyepatch. “Can you put the batteries in yourself?” he asked.  
  
Sherlock shook his head, slipping the eye patch on. “Daddy does batteries,” he stated solemnly.  
  
“Oh, I see.”  
  
Batteries were inserted, and Greg grinned as Sherlock immediately figured out how to make both the lights and the sounds work.  
  
“I’m a real pirate!” he declared, brandishing the pistol in one hand and the telescope in the other, and both older men laughed when he attempted to look through the glass with the eye covered by the patch. “Oops,” he commented, laughing at himself.  
  
John rose. “How about that hot chocolate?” he asked as he headed for the kitchen. Greg also rose and began tidying up the torn wrapping paper strewn around the floor. Sherlock, ignoring both of them, was now lying on his back, peering at the corners of the ceiling, then aiming and shooting his pistol.  
  
The DI wandered into the kitchen with the crumbled wrapping paper in his hands. He tossed it in the bin and then leaned against the counter, watching the doctor as he retrieved mugs.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me what you had in mind sooner?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Wasn’t sure I’d go through with it,” John admitted.  
  
“What made you decide?”  
  
“He… no. It wasn’t him. It was me.”  
  
Greg was silent, watching as John stirred the hot chocolate. Waiting.  
  
And then he broke. “God, Greg—I’ve missed him so much. He’s been so wound up and so adamant about not wanting it. I know it’s got something to do with his time away and after… when he came back, but it’s been torture watching him. He’s been needing it so much. He’s literally got the weight of the world on his shoulders and I can’t get him to eat or sleep or even stop and look at me for one minute. He’s killing himself over it all, and I just want to take care of him.”  
  
Greg patted his shoulder. “I know. I feel the same way. Thank you for having me here for this.” And then something occurred to him. “Did Mycroft really get him those things?”  
  
“He did. It was his idea, really. He’s as worried about him as I am, and he thought this might work… well, that it wouldn’t hurt to try.”  
  
Greg nodded and picked up two of the mugs of hot chocolate. “He’s being very quiet,” he noted.  
  
They returned to the sitting room and observed the reason for the silence.  
  
Little ‘Lock had fallen asleep on the floor in front of the fire, his pistol in one hand and his telescope in the other.  
  



End file.
